| It’s 6.00am and even Big Ben
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| Is trying to get his head down for a kip
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| But no sooner is it down
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| And then it’s on with dressing gown
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| For this city very rarely loses grip
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| But I have a friend who’s never up by 10.00
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| He’s fast asleep with mouth open wide
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| He’s lost a lot of jobs, but he’s won a lot of friends
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| And he says to me, he cannot tell the time
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| It’s 7.00am and we’re coughing up the phlegm
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| Spitting out the taste of night before
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| And we’ll vomit and we’ll choke
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| Just to climb their tatty rope
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| Well this city has its charm, and its claw
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| And he’ll blame his clock
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| Or he’ll say he’s lost his socks
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| And they’ll tell you that he’s been bitten by a snake
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| His excuses are an art
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| >From the bottom of his heart
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| And he thinks of them whenenver he awakes
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| It’s 8.00am we’re on the road again
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| Racing for a placing at the top
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| And it says green for go For the people in the know
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| But for the others all it says is red for stop
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| It’s cold and its damp
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| And they’ve dug him a grave
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| And the 10.15 merchants still in bed
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| And scrawled upon the headboard
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| For the whole wide world to see
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| Died In The Arms Of Big Ted |